That one evening,
The light soiled our feet.
Flowers fell from the sky.
.
Once,
I lay awake,
Wondering,
Will the wind pull
or push?
.
Now,
Where did it go?
Hiding in rhythm and rhyme,
Preaching through leaves and
The sighing calls of latest afternoon?
Or lost in the spiraling
Hopes of a hermit thrush?
.
The light points and muses.
Water.
Out there. With boats.
Swaying masts,
Like great waving hands.
Fading.
Leaving.
Shaken Rain 